


No Good Very Bad Day

by lucymonster



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Meetings, First Order Poe Dameron, M/M, Redemption, Smuggler Ben Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: Poe Dameron is having a bad day. It’s not his fault.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26
Collections: The Kylo|Ben x Poe Fanworks Exchange 2020





	No Good Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meteor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meteor/gifts).



Poe Dameron is having a bad day. It’s not his fault.

Well, okay. There’s an argument to be made that he shouldn’t have flown out on his own like that against an armed light freighter several times the size of his TIE. Official orders would have been good. Backup would have been good. But there wasn’t time to wait for orders or backup, because the pirate vessel was heading straight for the blockade with all fight and flight systems fully engaged. And once Poe was in pursuit, he followed protocol. Flew an academy-standard attack pattern. Cleared all sensitive orbital installations before opening fire. When his ship got hit – which was pure bad luck, really, because no freighter should have been able to execute the hairpin turn that put Poe at the business end of those cannons – he activated his flight suit’s emergency life support and ejected calmly from the cockpit.

No one could have predicted that the pirate vessel, which had been in such a hurry to get away, would slow its course to pick him up before a squad rescue shuttle could even launch. So, plain as day, the fact that he’s been taken captive is not his fault. Even his hardass commanding officer will have to admit it’s not his fault. If they try to chew him out back at base, he’ll tell them straight up: it’s not his fault.

But that doesn’t help Poe now. Because the enemy captain doesn’t look like he cares about correct apportionment of blame, and with a blaster at his temple and shackles biting his wrists, Poe’s chances of living to argue his case with the people who _do_ care aren’t looking so good.

Bad day. It happens to everyone now and then – even the First Order Elite 8th Squad’s most decorated ace.

* * *

They’re being fired on, and the blaring internal sirens suggest something has been hit.

‘You’re going to get us both killed,’ Poe yells over the racket, watching aghast as his captor steers the ship towards an orbital defence outpost instead of away from it. ‘This planet is under strict isolation orders. No non-First Order vessels are allowed to pass in or out of the blockade.’

‘Yes, thank you, I’m aware.’ The enemy captain has a calm, melodic voice that might sound attractive under other circumstances. It’s not the final sound Poe wants to hear before exploding in a rain of fire.

‘So why are you still trying to pass?’

‘Maybe I have issues with authority.’ 

Gloved hands dance across the flight controls, sending the freighter into a dead drop that Poe with his shackles has no chance to brace for. ‘Damn it, will you at least turn on your stabilisers?’

‘Can’t reach,’ says the captain. ‘It’s not easy without a copilot.’

Poe swears. First Order fighter pilot is not where he started out in life, and he knows enough from his past career to have questions about why a smuggler in these parts is flying solo. There’s no spice lord this side of the kessel mines stupid enough to entrust a payload to a lone freelancer. But another lurch knocks the questions clean out of his head. His forehead hits hard plastoid and he feels a bump swelling between his brows. ‘Let me out of these binders and I’ll copilot for you.’

The captain, horrifyingly, takes his eyes off the viewport where an attack formation is swarming against him. ‘You try anything and we both get killed.’

‘I know. Trust me, I’m feeling very motivated not to die today.’

The captain inspects Poe’s face. ‘You are,’ he says thoughtfully, as his dark eyes send prickles up and down Poe’s spine. There’s something off about that gaze. Like it sees things that aren’t meant to be seen. ‘Okay.’

Poe’s binders unlock themselves. Must be some kind of voice-activated tech. Creepy. 

This day isn’t getting any better. Technically, by the strictest reading of the rulebook, helping this pirate is an act of treason. But what else is Poe supposed to do? Sit here and wait to die? Fat lot of use that would be to the cause.

‘I’m Ben, by the way,’ the captain offers unprompted.

Great. They’re on first name terms. Poe will survive this shitshow now, and worry what he’s going to tell his commanding officers later.

* * *

They’re grounded on a moon just outside the planetary blockade. Bad news: they’ve blown the freighter’s main fuel line. Worse news: they can’t get out on the hull to fix it, because the sky is throwing hailstones the size of fists. Worst news of all: even if they do manage to fix it, they have no chance of breaking atmo safely through the dense, dark coverage of staticky clouds. They’re stuck here for the foreseeable future. Poe can’t even hope for rescue, because the storm is bad enough to baffle the sharpest of the First Order’s sensors.

Silver lining: there’s booze.

‘To tell you the truth,’ says Poe as they kick back on the lounge beside an old dejarik table, ‘I’m not even sure what the blockade’s about. There’s bad actors on that planet, that’s all I’ve been told. It’s my squad’s job to watch the coreward hemisphere and chase off anyone who tries to break through our perimeter.’ He takes a deep swig from the bottle of Corellian rum Ben has unearthed from one of his freighter’s many hidden compartments. ‘Technically, I’m doing okay. You still haven’t gotten past me.’

‘Give me the rum,’ says Ben. Their fingers brush as Poe passes the bottle, and Ben’s lips close around the rim. Poe watches his throat bob as he swallows. He’s a weird guy. Gruff, intense, about ninety per cent nose, with a clean-shaven jaw that might look stronger with a camouflaging layer of stubble. His muscular shoulders bulge through a black leather flight jacket not unlike Poe’s field uniform. His shaggy dark hair hangs in his face and makes his eyes look all shadowy and mysterious. Poe can’t decide if he’s attractive or not. It depends on the light. On the angle. On the rum supply.

Ben downs enough to make a Hutt look shapely and then studies Poe with searching eyes. ‘You told me you’re the best fighter pilot in the First Order.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘So why are you out here on a mission you don’t even understand? If you’re such a hotshot, why don’t they trust you with the details?’

Poe laughs. ‘You must not know much about the First Order. _Trust_ has nothing to do with it. You just follow whatever your chain of command says and don’t ask questions.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a fun way to live.’

‘It’s better than the alternative.’

Poe takes back the bottle and drowns the taste of those memories with another swig. He doesn’t want to think about his life before the First Order, running with scumrats on Kijimi and wasting his life away. He’d been so angry after his mother died, so sick of the New Republic she’d died fighting for, so directionless after losing the moral core he’d grown up around. The First Order gave him another chance at life. Saw his value, wiped his record, promised him a chance to create a world where shit like what happened to his family won’t happen to other people’s as well. They made it sound more glamorous than it’s been so far – but that’s standard recruitment talk. He doesn’t ask about the blockade because he doesn’t need to know.

‘Or because you don’t want to know,’ says Ben. Poe must have spoken his thoughts aloud. Funny. He thought his mouth was shut. ‘Earlier, you asked me why I’m trying to pass the blockade.’

‘Closed ports mean the regular spice traders can’t get through, and censored broadcasts mean there’s no holonet to keep the masses entertained. You’re here to capitalise on a bored populace with nothing better to do than get high.’

‘No,’ says Ben. ‘Closed ports mean the regular medical shipments can’t get through, and censored broadcasts mean there’s no way for the populace to call for help. You can look, if you want. My cargo holds are full of med supplies.’

His eyes brim with earnest intensity, but that’s not saying much. Earnest intensity seems to be his default facial expression. ‘So you’re what? Amnesty Intergalactic?’

‘I’m whoever I get paid to be. Don’t get the wrong idea – I’m not spinning some feelgood story for you. I’m just saying, your elite fighter pilot skills might be wasted on stopping the illegal antibiotic trade.’

Poe doesn’t want to think about that. So he drinks some more. Today kriffing sucks.

* * *

Piloting doesn’t get any easier when you’re semi-drunk. That’s a lesson Poe learned thoroughly while he was at the First Order’s flight academy, but the occasional refresher course never hurts anyone.

Unless you get yourself killed in the process. Then it hurts a lot.

The storm has cleared, the First Order is coming in for another attack, and Poe and Ben are breaking atmo at hull-crushing speed while an ancient astromech called Artoo plugs their leaking fuel line with outdated tool arms and pure determination. ‘So anyway,’ Poe says, to distract himself from the inevitability of his violent demise, ‘who’s this employer of yours who cares so much about other planets’ medical needs?’

‘If I tell you that,’ yells Ben over a burst of rapid laser fire, ‘you’re going to refuse to keep helping me.’

‘I literally have no choice but to help you. They’re not going to stop firing on you just because one of their own’s on board.’

‘You always have a choice,’ says Ben. ‘But you’re not the type to die for your cause, are you? At least, not for the First Order’s cause.’ He pauses, maybe steeling himself, or maybe just concentrating on adjusting his flight trajectory. ‘I’m hauling for the Resistance right now. It’s … a temporary arrangement.’

Words freeze in Poe’s throat. His head swims with rum and jumbled thoughts. All he can say after several moments of choked silence is: ‘Who the hell joins the Resistance _temporarily_?’

‘I do. So do you, apparently, since you’re still helping me.’

‘That’s not…’

It is, though.

It’s starting to dawn on Poe that the consequences of today’s captivity may be slightly bigger than a chewing-out from his commanding officer.

* * *

They get past the blockade. Drop the payload. Poe gets a brief glimpse out the viewport of crates floating down towards the landing pad of a shelled-out hospital, antigrav thrusters blowing a shimmer of gas across the tarmac, and then they’re soaring back out into space and losing their First Order pursuers in the blue glow of hyperspace.

The hangover is creeping up. It’s been a very, very long day.

‘The thing is,’ Poe says conversationally, ‘if you release me back to the First Order now, I’m going to be executed for treason. They won’t believe it wasn’t my fault.’

‘Not my problem. I could sell you back for ransom,’ says Ben. Poe doesn’t _think_ he sounds like he means it.

‘You could. But you weren’t having much fun before I got here, trying to fly this ship without a copilot. You could keep me on board for a while. As a hostage. I’d have no choice but to keep helping you.’

Ben looks Poe up and down. He’s kind of attractive after all, Poe has decided. In a weird, offbeat, nose-heavy kind of way. ‘I don’t know how I feel about keeping hostages,’ Ben says. ‘Coercion isn’t really my thing. You could stay on board, but it would have to be your choice.’

He already knows. Poe can see the confidence radiating off him, like he has access to some realm of knowledge that mere mortals can never hope to know. Even Poe himself doesn’t know. He has no idea what choice he’s about to make, or what his reasons will be, or how he’ll live with the consequences. He feels like he’s been looking at Ben’s maybe-attractive face his whole life, and it’s been such a very long day.

Long and bad and not his fault. But it might yet be salvageable. 

‘I need time to think about it,’ he says. ‘And maybe a few more drinks.’

‘Drinks I can do,’ says Ben. ‘But don’t think too hard. I kind of like you when you’re acting on impulse.’

Is he … flirting?

Whatever. He has a point. Impulse, as Poe’s commanding officer so often points out, has always been his guiding force in life. ‘Okay, you know what? Fuck it. I guess I’m in.’

There’s no uncertainty left when Ben smiles. He’s definitely attractive.


End file.
